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ADDRESS 

of 

STATE HISTORIAN OF GEORGIA 

Hon. Lucian Lamar Knight 

M 

IN THE STATE CAPITOL 

NOVEMBER 25tli, 1916 

ON THE OCCASION OF THE 

PRESENTATION 

By 

MRS. RICHARD PLEASANTON BROOKS, Regent 

Through the 

PIEDMONT CONTINENTAL CHAPTER 

of the 

DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION 

of Atlanta, Georgia 

of an Oil Painting Representing 

"Nancy Hart Capturing The Tories" 

In Georgia 

During the American Revolution 

1779 



A^^: 



This address is published in appreciation of the work 
of the Honorary Life Regent, Mrs. Richard P. Brooks, for 
the Piedmont Continental Chapter, Daughter of the 
American Revolution, and her untiring efforts for all Natio- 
naliand State D. A. R. patriotic work. 



CopyrigKt af>pliei for by Mre. Minnie E. Mogan, Regent 
ol tne Piedmont Continental Cnapter D. A. R., February 

13th. 1917. 



0CIA457324 



NANCY HARrS HEROIC EXPLOIT. 



Full text of an address delivered in the Georgia House of 
Representatives, November 25, 1916, when a memorial pic- 
ture of Nancy Hart, was unveiled by the Piedmont Conti- 
nental Chapter, D. A. R., Mrs. R. P. Brooks, regent and 
donor. 

Madame Regent, Daughters of the American Revolution, 
Ladies and Gentlemen : 

On the dome of this capitol, emblematic of Georgia's gov- 
erning genius, stands the statue of a woman. Lifted above 
the hurrying crowds which throng our streets, that sym- 
bolic figure maintains its serene poise in the chastened 
silence of a heavenly ether. To the wise and to the simple, 
to the erudite scholar and to the unlettered rustic, it speaks 
a message which all interpret alike — namely this: that the 
hand which trains the childhood of our state lifts its torch of 
liberty aloft and that she who rocks the cradle rules the 
commonwealth. 

These commemorative exercises, held in Georgia's Hall of 
Representatives, lay striking emphasis upon two distinct but 
kindred lines of thought: first, the devotion of our noble 
women to the state ; and, second, the debt of gratitude which 
Georgia owes to her patriotic women. Each of these prop- 
ositions is rich in its suggestiveness. Beginning with the 
times of Nancy Hart, and coming on down through the iron 
days of the sixties, even to this god hour, Georgia's crown- 
ing glory has been her Spartan womanhood. In every crisis 
of her history, the patriotism of her daughters has been as 
lofty, as resplendant and as steadfast as a star; and to all 
the assembled states I issue this challenge : "Discount them 
if you will but match them if you can." 

More even than to her gallant sons who, in this chamber 
of debate, have shaped her laws, is Georgia indebted to 
her daughters. Nor is this the language of absequious com- 
pliment ; for, deeper than statutory enactments, more bind- 
ing than legal restraints, the principles which our women 
have inculcated at the home fireside lie at the very roots of 
our civic life, and upon these basic principles the whole 
fabric of our government rests. The quickening interest 



which this generation has come to feel in the matchless 
story of our State is due to the unwearied zeal with which 
these splendid women have toiled and sacrificed to rescue 
Georgia's fading memories. With the chisel of Old Mor- 
tality, they have been carving monuments and deepening 
epitaphs all over our State. Nor does this labor of love 
any longer provoke, as it once did, an irreverent sneer ; for 
we have come to realize that the greatest thing in this 
universe is sentiment. 

These women have not forgotten the hallowed forms 
which lie sleeping in our silent hills. They have taught us 
to remember those who are gone — in whose spectral wake 
we, too, must follow soon. They have sown the State with 
tablets, from Rabun Gap to Tybee Light. They have marked 
the heroic fields and the high places of our state. Love's 
labor has not been lost. Thanks to them a forgotten Georgia 
is once more remembered. Thanks to them a dead Georgia 
has come back again to life; and, knowing the old State 
better, we have learned to love her more, not only for her 
grand old hills but for her grander history. This is what 
you have done for Georgia. We are richer, prouder, happier, 
as a people, for what you have shown us of ourselves. 

Nor is this hall an inappropriate place to recount what 
Georgia has done for her women. The oldest female college 
in existence was chartered by the Legislature of this State 
in 1836, when Wesleyan Fem.ale College at Macon came to 
its birth. It pioneered the way for Vassar, for Wellesley, 
and for Smith, proclaimed woman's intellectual emancipa- 
tion, struck the shackles from her brain, and registered a 
new era in the history of freedom. When all other states 
were silent, Georgia said to her women: "you, too, have a 
mind. You are a man's help-meet; you were made from a 
rib in his side; and, if not his equal, you are at least his 
equivolent." In 1906, a woman became Georgia's State 
librarian. It was only last year that women were admitted 
to practice law in the courts of Georgia. Equal suffrage is 
still delayed. It may or it may not come. I am neither its 
propagandist nor its prophet. But when I cast my eyes 
abroad and see the forces which are gathering on the 
nation's horizon ; when I read that for the first time in Am- 
erican history a woman has been elected to Congress ; when 



I see what equal suffrage has' done for temperance, for 
child labor, for social betterment, and for Democratic vic- 
tory, I think I can see it coming, and coming fast. 

It is not the least of your services to us nor the smallest 
of our obligations to you that, while teaching us to rever- 
ence the sacred sym.bolism of our country's flag, you have 
taught us first of all to venerate and to cherish, to safe- 
guard and to preserve the history of our own state. The 
germ of patriotism is the love of home. I have no faith in 
the Americanism which detaches itself from locality — which 
professes to know no North, no South, no East, no West. I 
abhor a sectionalism which is sinister but I cherish a sec- 
tionalism which is patriotic — which savors of the soil — 
which enriches the Union with its local color, with its indi- 
vidual flavor of achievement — whose spirit is to the manner 
born. When the soldier of the legion lay dying in Algiers, 
it was not the country spread out upon the map to which 
his feverish fancy wandered, but the vine-clad hills of Big- 
gen on the Rhine. Home is what Georgia spells to me. 
This is the picture which she holds before my eyes — .this 
the perfume which she throws around my heart, sweeter 
than all the spices of Arabia. The man who does not love 
his state, is not the proper guardian of his country's honor; 
he is no friend to its flag; and, when danger threatens, he 
will never heed its bugle call to battle. Secession is dead. 
This nation has naught to fear from local patriotism. Show 
me the man who loves Georgia, whose heart is anchored 
to these red old hills, and I will show you one to whom this 
republic can pin its faith, and in whose loyalty our ship of 
state will find an anchor in the storm. 

I have no patience with the cant v/hich in an age of pro- 
gress deems it a heresy and a sin to look backward. What- 
ever we are or have this day we owe to those who have gone 
before us. The folly or the wisdom of looking backward 
depends entirely upon its spirit. God help us, if the time 
ever comes when we are too wise in our own conceit, or too 
drunk with the lust of power, or too haughty with the pride 
of gold, to sit at the feet of our fathers. History is the 
most ennobling of sciences. It is the story of man. We 
cannot reverently scan its pages without receiving an access 
of patriotism, a baptism of fire, a new incentive to exertion. 



Besides telling us what we need to know, it better fits us 
to act in the Living Present — to put our visions into deeds. 
History is not a fool's paradise. It is a wise man's chart 
and compass. There is safety in its beacon lights — sure 
anchorage in its fixed stars. Woe to that state or nation 
which disregards its divine thunders. In an age of material 
pomp, let us not forget Thebes and Nineveh and Babylon; 
and let each morning sun remind us that we are unworthy 
of a future if we are recreant to a past. 

Georgia's history from first to last — from the gentle and 
humane Oglethorpe down to the last Confederate governor 
who today fills her executive chair — blessings upon his gray 
hairs! Georgia's whole history, I say, has been a record 
of glory, which her children need to study and which the 
world ought to know. On the map of our state there are 
one hundred and fifty-two counties only one of which was 
named for a woman. But her fame is an evergreen of im- 
mortality, plucked from the tree of life, — a gift of the gods 
which the world will not willingly let die — ungainly, un- 
lettered, homely but heroic Nancy Hart. Madame regent, 
to you all honor. We divide with you this day the homage 
which our proud hearts pay to her. What a splendid gift 
to our state, this memorial which calls our war-queen back 
from the dead and makes her live again in the glowing col- 
ors of the artist. Already I can see the youth of our state 
drinking in its lessons ; already I can feel an electrical in- 
uence em.anating from this picture to all the four corners 
of our state. It will make for a nobler and a better Georgia. 
There will not be a hamlet of the mountains to which it 
will not reach. For the inspiration of so beautiful a thought 
— born of your own loyal and loving heart — for the liberality 
of purse, for the expenditure of time, for the patient care 
required in the execution of its details, Georgia thanks you, 
and will hold you in her heart's core. Henceforth, upon 
the walls of her capitol your service and your name will be 
linked with Nancy Hart's ; and for every proud recollection 
of her there will be a tender thought of you. 

Nancy Hart's place in history is fixed. Two centuries have 
sufficed to establish this fact. The story of her thrilling 
exploit is neither myth nor fable; and she bICs an eternal 
defiance to the higher critics. But for much of her prestige 



in the war department she was indebted to an unheroic 
blemish which would have kept Helen of Troy safe in Sparta, 
prevented the Trojan war, and robbed the classic world of 
Homer's Iliad. It would likewise have destroyed the Bib- 
lical legend of Queen Esther and spoiled the pathetic 
romance of Mary Queen of Scots. She was afflicted with 
what the doctors call "Astygmatism ;" but, in the plain 
vernacular, she was cross-eyed. Some one has said that 
if Cleopatra's nose had been slightly tilted it would have 
changed the whole countenance of mediaeval times. It 
sounds suspiciously like Douglas Jerrold. We cannot doubt 
that if "the star-eyed sorceress of the Nile" had been cross- 
eyed, Mark Antony would never have lost the Roman world ; 
and equally is it true that unless our Georgia heroine had 
been cross-eyed she could never have held six men at bay 
with an old blunderbus which might have hung fire when 
she dared to shoot. 

There is abundant proof of the fact that Mrs. Hart was 
not a belle of the ball. In an old newspaper published at 
Milledgeville in 1825, I have found this somewhat grandilo- 
quent description of her personal attributes : "Nancy Hart, 
with her husband, settled before the Revolutionary struggle 
a few miles above the ford on Broad River, known by the 
name of Fishdam Ford, in Elbert County, at the bend of the 
river, near a very extensive- canebrake. An apple orchard 
still remains to point out the spot. In altitude, Mrs. Hart 
was almost Patagonian, remarkably well-limbed and muscu- 
lar, and marked by nature with prominent features. She 
possessed none of those graces of motion which a poetical 
eye might see in the heave of the ocean wave or in the 
change of the summer cloud; nor did her cheeks — I will 
not speak of her nose — exhibit the rosy tints which dwell 
on the brow of the evening or play on the gilded bow. No 
one claims for her throat that it was lined with fiddle- 
strings. That dreadful scourge of beauty, the small-pox, 
had set its seal upon her face. She was called a hard 
swearer, was cross-eyed and cross-grained, but was never- 
theless a sharp-shooter. Nothing was more common than 
to see her in full pursuit of the stag. The huge antlers 
whichhung around her cabin, or upheld her trusty gun, gave 
proof of her skill in gunery; and the white comb, drained 



of its honey and hung up for ornament, testified to her 
powers in bee finding. Many bear witness to her magical 
art in the mazes of cookery, for she was able to prepare 
a pumpkm m as many ways as there are days in the week 
She was extensively known and employed for her knowledge 
m the treatment of various kinds of ailments. But her 
skill took an even wider range, for the fact is well known 
that she held a tract of land by the safe tenure of a first 
survey, which she made on the Sabbath, hatchet in hand." 
It is quite evident from this account that, if Nancy Hart 
did not do the voting for her family, she was the militant 
prototype, in an eighteenth century time and in a Carrie 
Nation manner, of ballot reform. She may have lacked 
beauty; but she possessed "captivating charms," and she 
knew how to bring even a Tory to his knees. 

It was during the troublous days of Toryism in upper 
Georgia that Nancy Hart performed the courageous feat 
which has since carried her name to the ends of Christen- 
dom. There is perhaps no exploit in our annals richer in 
the thrilling elements of the drama. It was staged in a 
little cabin of the backwoods. Both Savannah and Augusta 
had become the strongholds of the British ; and all the fron- 
tier had commenced to swam with Tories. Preparatory to 
waging warfare against these scalawags of the Revolution, 
General Elijah Clarke had transported most of the women 
and children of the Broad River settlement to a secure 
asylum beyond the Blue Ridge mountains. But Nancy Hart 
had not traveled in the wake of the noted rifleman. There 
was work for her at home. 

Given to bloody deeds of violence as the Tories were, it 
seemed like the irony of fate for these desperadoes to be 
held up by a petticoat. Stupefied with astonishment, they 
were like helpless babes in the wood as they stood before 
the flashing eyes of this war-shod Diana of the forest. Never 
before had they looked into the barrel of an old shot-gun 
behind which glared such an infernal pair of optics. If red- 
hot coals had risen up from the ground underneath and 
taken the place of eye-balls, they could not have flashed 
more defiantly the brimstone message of a lower world. 
Tradition says that when she seized her gun she cocked it 
with "a blazing oath." It was undeniably an embarrassing 



moment. Each member of the squad thought in his bewild- 
erment that she was aiming her buckshot at him, and, since 
discretion was the better part of valor, he decided to stand 
pat. At last, however, one of them did move. But he never 
moved again. Recovering from his paralytic spell, he ven- 
tured forward to wrest the v/eapon from her hand. But, 
quick as lightning, she pulled the trigger. ''Old Bess" went 
off with a bang. He received the leaden charge into his 
bosom and fell lifeless upon the floor. Before another mem- 
ber of the party could advance, she had snatched another 
musket from her daughter's hand, and squared herself for 
action. It was evident at this stage of the game that the 
lady of the house knew how to shoot, straight to the mark. 

Succor now arrived. Captain Hart, having learned of the 
visit of the Tories, appeared upon the door-step in good time 
to see his wife drilling the squad in defensive tactics. But 
he reached the house none too soon. Another moment might 
have changed the whole aspect of things. Well, too, it was 
that he brought substantial re-enforcements. With the 
aid of stout muscles, the men were soon made prisoners; 
the entire bunch was captured ; and in less than half an hour 
five Tories were dangling in mid-air to the tune of "Yankee 
Doodle." 

But this bold capture was not effected without cunning 
strategy on the part of Nancy Hart. It required not only 
courage but presence of mind, quick-wittedness and a level 
head. Under the guise of feminine simplicity, she induced 
the Tories to believe that she was an easy mark. The first 
demand of the visitors was for something to appease the 
pangs of hunger. Breakfast had already been served. Cap- 
tain Hart had rejoined his comrades of the frontier guard, 
stationed some distance off. But she dropped her work 
instantly to oblige her guests. She even admonished her 
children to wait upon the gentlemen. Not by the least token 
did she exhibit the weakness of fear or betray the stratagem 
which she expected to employ. Suspicion was completely 
allayed. On came the repast. Venison, hoe-cake, fresh 
honey-comb, and pumpki npie. Cut of a jug of corn, liquor, 
which one of them brought along, Nancy herself drank, say- 
ing: *T'll take a swig with you, if it kills every cow on the 
island." Finally, when the Tories, arms stacked, were be- 



ginning, like Jack Falstaff, "to take their ease in their inn." 
all bunched together at the table, she snatched an old fowl- 
ing-piece from the wall and threatened to blow out the 
brains of the first man who offered to rise or to taste a 
mouthful of food. The tables were turned. Swifter change 
was never wrought, even by the magic "Presto" of the 
Arabian Nights. 

Meanwhile, the guard was coming up. Nancy had dis- 
oatched one of the youngsters to Captain Hart, urging him 
to hasten to the house at once with able-bodied help; and 
she also stationed her eldest daughter, Sukey, in her rear, 
so that, in the nick of time, she could be re-enforced with 
fresh weapons. It was not until succor arrived that Nancy 
Hart lowered her second musket. Thus an unprotected 
woman, in the danger-infested thickets of upper Georgia, 
during the darkest hour of the struggle for independence, 
not only outwitted and outbraved a lawless band of Tories, 
but added another immortal name to the heroic roster of 
the Revolution. 

What if her eyes were crossed? — they were true enough 
to sentinel the Georgia forest in an hour of danger, and, 
like twin stars upon the morning sky, were glorious enough 
to light the dawn of liberty. Will Georgia forget her ? Not 
while an impulse of gratitude is left in her heart or a frag- 
ment of her history remains. The Maid of Orleans may 
some day be forgotten in her own beautiful France, but 
among these Georgia hills I can fancy no such fate for 
Nancy Hart. 

To find the grave of our heroine, we must look to the 
"dark and bloody ground" of old Kentucky; but even there 
our search will be in vain. Her last resting-place is un- 
known, save to the friendly dews and to the vagrant flowers. 
Perhaps the song-bird knows its secret. We cannot tell. 
But somewhere, in the land of the Blue Grass, sleeps Nancy 
Hart; and, weherever she lies, may her deep slumbers be 
forever sweet. She left us when the war ended, to join 
her husband's kindred, on the forest trails of Daniel Boone ; 
but here the curtain falls. The Hart family into which she 
married, an aristocratic one, gave a wife to the illustrious 
Henry Clay; while it flowered again in the great Thomas 
Hart Benton, of Missouri. Her own maiden name was 



Nancy Morgan, a name which honorably connects her with 
one of the best famihes of the Old Dominion. She has left 
us no mound to bedew with our tears — to bedeck with our 
garlands ; but she has left us an immortal memory. It per- 
meates all our life. It lives in the prattle of the nursery 
and in the lore of the school-room. Our children know her 
story by heart. Water-fall and cataract, wind and wave, 
have all set it to music. Reaching down to the very roots 
of our soil, it extends to every leaf and twig and blade of 
grass, to every wandering violet, to every climbing honey- 
suckle, and to every wild-rose of the woodland paths. Her 
spirit is still abroad in Georgia — guarding our ocean front, 
patrolling our forest solitudes, and hovering in the golden 
air above our mountain-tops. She lives again in Georgia's 
capitol. We meet her face to face once more in these Dau- 
ghters of the Revolution. We find her in every chapter 
house ; we find her in every patriotic cause ; we find her 
wherever Old Glory's stars are lifted. Re-incarnate, in ten 
thousand molds of beauty, Nancy Hart is with tis still — 
still fighting for the flag. We need not look for her among 
the dead, because she lives again. 



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